When I think back to high school, my biggest regret is choosing boys and booze over athletics and academics. I was more concerned with the when and where of the next party than I was with knowing the when and what was on the next test. Tests like those weekly vocabulary ones that I’d purposely forget to study for or would cram the list of twenty or so words a few minutes beforehand hoping that the meanings would lodge in my semi-high brain. That was mostly during my senior year when throwing caution to the wind was my mantra, better known today as idgaf*. Miraculously, I was able to graduate with a B average and proved a calculus teacher wrong when she told me it couldn’t be done. Tell me I can’t and I’ll show you how. Somehow my mathematical equation for grade point averages bested her quotient. Outsmarting a math teacher ranks as one of my all-time achievements. One that I probably couldn’t repeat if I tried. Since blowing off those vocabulary tests in high school that, yes, would follow me in real life, I have this recurring fear that’s, as fears go, totally irrational because underneath every fear is a little paranoia. I have this vision where I’ve made it big and I’m being interviewed by someone who uses a word that stumps me. It’s like a one-on-one format and there’s no way out. I can’t answer the question or I reply in such a way that shows my ignorance. I’ve seen it happen to famous people and RHOA’s Porsha Williams if that’s not overreaching the limits of stardom. After her Underground Railroad confession, she’s not exactly the litmus test for adult intelligence. Even worse than not knowing the meaning of a word is mispronouncing one, which is a tell-tale sign that it’s not a word someone uses often. If you’re one of the few people left who watch American Idol then you might’ve heard J.Lo’s mispronunciation of the word integral at the end of the show. Proper and well-spoken Harry even looked like he did a double take at her blunder. In fairness, J-Lo isn’t exactly known for her spoken word or singing for that matter. More like skimpy style and dance moves. And her new hit, "I Luh Ya Papi” reiterates my point.

Even journalistic veterans like Barbara Walters make mistakes and I’m not talking about her use of the letter R. As a longtime View watcher, she pronounces every letter of the NAACP organization instead of saying, “N-double A-C-P” as it’s commonly known. Sherry cringes. When I sent out the first few pages of my manuscript, I nearly hyperventilated when I realized I’d overlooked a misspelling. One that Microsoft Word didn’t catch either. I’d spelled forgivable with an “e.” Look, I’m not the only one.

DVR Screen Shot (Any guesses for that shadowy figure?)

I guess the moral of the story is that we’re all human. And as long as we’re living, we're learning. I’m constantly learning new things, new words and how some words we hear really aren’t words at all. "Reoccurring" and "comprable" [sic] vs. recurring and comparable. And I just learned that saleable is a word even though my mind wants to tell me it’s not. And now with the Urban Dictionary*, I’m learning all kinds of words and expressions that were better left unlearned.

Peter loving any dog that will let him. I wasn't quick enough to capture the dog putting his right paw on Peter's shoulder.

Peter’s been talking a lot about college lately. Not about football teams and mascots but getting an education there. I see the thoughts churning in his head picturing himself at college. He asks, “How many years does it take?” even though he still can’t comprehend time frames or the difference between next week, next month, or next year. His teachers told him that it takes good grades to get into college. I won’t tell him about alternate pathways like community colleges and trade schools yet. Thankful me is just glad that college is on his radar and for a second grader that’s pretty impressive. It wasn’t that long ago that Peter could care less about school. He’d talk about going to summer school like it was a good thing not realizing that going is like a punishment. No kid would choose sterile classrooms and tests over X-box, swimming pools, and bike rides. Sometimes Peter’s reasoning capacity is off from the rest of the world. There are times when I can’t dissuade him from hurting himself. It’s like trying to explain that doing bad in school is like shooting himself in the foot. Then I have to deconstruct the un-literal meaning of that expression. Peter carries around a daily progress sheet because getting an ‘N’ at the end of every week doesn’t have much of an impact on his behavior. He needs reinforcement from every teacher, after every class period, every day. And he’s behaved better since his teachers started using this method of immediate accountability midway through the school year. He knows that doing well in school will help him get into college a full decade from now. But who’s really counting? Not Peter. His teachers? Well, I think they're counting down until the end of this school year, especially when Peter gets a case of diarrhea of the mouth. This is the sheet that came home last week.

The blue part didn't copy well.

This is what's written at the top of the sheet in blue: Good day. Peter got a little frustrated at recess, but he turned it around…And not 2 minutes after I wrote that he yelled, “Let’s play a game called hate our teachers!" We talked about how words can be hurtful. The roller coaster continues.

Like many mothers, or women in general depending on who you ask, I have a lot of pet peeves. Things like dirty dishes left in the sink when the dishwasher’s been emptied and moist sunflower shells that didn’t quite make it into the trashcan. Empty packages littering the pantry shelves and losing grip of the peanut butter jar because someone tried to pop on a twist top lid. Kids are the masters of taking short cuts leaving others to pick up the slack. But perhaps my greatest pet peeve of all has to do with life in general. I call it going through the motions. And I despise doing things just because. I’m sure you’re familiar with these man-made situations inherent in every bureaucracy. Situations where you’re forced to follow the formalities even though they defy logical sense. My initiation into the educational bureaucracy came when Peter was three. I had him tested to see if he qualified for a county-run special needs preschool. I submitted his paperwork in April and he wasn’t tested until after the start of the next school year. Getting a child tested and enrolled by the start of the school year wasn’t a priority. Sadly, bureaucracies are full of policies that define the irrationality of rationality. Nearly five years later, I still encounter this kind of head scratching frustration. Take for instance the date of the annual IEP meeting. (Side note: IEP stands for Individualized Education Plan that’s a set of personalized goals and tasks for special needs students.) These meetings are done once annually and they must occur before the date of the last one. Dates that make me just as nervous as having my teeth cleaned in between the six-month period my insurance allows. Peter’s meeting happens to fall in March. This is two months before the end of the school year, which means that changes are enacted nearing the end of each grade. Wouldn’t it make sense to have meetings at the very end or beginning of the next year to coincide with the duration of each grade level? During this year’s IEP meeting, Peter’s teachers were discussing his area of weakness in reading. I mentioned his most recent report card, which seemed to contradict his needs. To an untrained eye, it would seem that Peter’s excelling in on level, second grade reading with a grade of 96. Per the IEP, he reads at a first grade level. How could two criteria completed by the same teachers be so vastly different? Peter’s teachers told me to basically disregard the report card because it isn’t a true reflection of his progress. They explained to me that they aren’t able to record anything lower than on level. We shake our heads in unison, unable to make sense of this irrationality of rationality grading process. So I’m left to wonder why teachers are forced to go through the motions and misrepresent a child’s progress. Just because there’s no option in the computerized grading system? Why should the minions of the educational system (in terms of pay, status, etc.) adhere to a process that falsifies a child’s abilities? Just to satisfy some higher ups who are disconnected from the classroom? Does this scoring system based on semantics affect federal funding or a school’s rating? What is it? What purpose does this serve? Certainly not our children.

I've said before that I don't have a math brain. So when Peter brought this worksheet home, I hesitated before writing a note in the margin, confessing that I had no idea how to solve the first problem. Do you know without reading the teacher's notes?

Yes, I know it’s only the middle of February, but it’s beginning to feel like summer. Not in the weather sense, although it is warming to nearly sixty degrees today with a sky just blue enough to remind us that we’re near winter’s end. Pockets of snow are the only telltale sign that winter has overstayed her due. So, too, have the kids who are now into their sixth day at home. Days that have felt more like an unwelcome teaser for summer break. That’s a time of year that, given the chance, I’d rather hibernate away from it all more so than I’d like to sunbathe with a six-pack of Corona Light. I’ve come to the conclusion that the sun’s rays are equally as damaging to my face as the stress from being a mother. I remind myself that I’m in the homestretch with less than twenty-four hours to go. By then I’ll be in recovery mode, overcoming this acute brain fog. The one that most mothers knows (and sometimes wives, too) when caring for underlings zaps our mental faculties. I can’t argue with the prior days off after the last ‘snow’ incidence with buses on icy roads. But, doesn’t it seem that today, President’s Day, should be a mandatory attendance day devoted to our past leaders? Perhaps a day where students learn to recite them all in order. Instead, the kids are home, wallowing on the furniture, eating me out of house and home while asking, “What’s for dinner?” at 9 a.m. They’re groggy from the late nights and days off, confessing that they aren’t ready to go back to school as they sit eating a bowl of raisin bran, bodies slanted and their chins resting inside their cupped palms. Oh, the pressure to be young. (Insert sarcastic cough.) The kids know better than to ask me how I feel. I think my perturbed expression and yes, maybe even a juvenile eye roll, tell my sentiments. I love them, though. Really, I do. Absence does make the heart grow fonder, though. And, I know what you’re thinking. But I’m not going to give them a history lesson at home because you know how I feel about home schooling. Not to mention, history has always been my worst subject. I’d rather deal with the present than try and understand the past. Naïve? Yes, maybe. It’s not surprising then that I wasn’t familiar with all of the Presidents’ names when completing this word search. Hopefully you’ll recognize them all.

When I was in high school, I took auto mechanics even though I knew I’d never work in a repair shop. The class was an easy elective where I could slack and still earn an A. High school electives are what are known as specials for younger kids. You know those schedule fillers like art, music, and P.E. that appeal to only a minority of students. And for most kids without a musical ear, art gene, or physicality, those classes pique more misery than enjoyment. Peter rationalizes his contempt by telling me, “I’m never going to be an artist.” I believe him, and although he makes a valid point that won’t excuse him from participating. On Friday, Peter came home with a discipline referral form for not participating in music.

He can’t help it. He rebels in the ways that most people want to. And by rebel, he speaks without a filter and won’t cooperate no matter the reward. If discipline referral forms were handed out in life, I’m sure we’d all be guilty of racking up a few infractions. Some more than others. Most of us adhere to behavior norms and bite our tongues or forever hold our peace, so to speak. We couldn’t all go through life voicing that dialogue in our head. Yet, if an argument ensues around me then I can’t guarantee that I won’t watch with interest. For Peter, sitting through his weekly specials is like a doctor visit for us. How many times have you been sitting in a packed waiting room, inhaling air that’s saturated with viral contaminants no matter which way you turn? You sit and wait, thinking that any minute you’re just going to lose it and walk out. Then you get back to the exam room and wait to be seen again. Hopefully, fully clothed and not stark naked with one of those scratchy paper drapes covering your lady bits. There you sit impatiently waiting and the timing of your wait is now reset because you’ve moved locations. You want to open the door and shout, “What’s taking so long?” to whatever nurse is in earshot. And if your kids are with you then you can use them to your advantage while looking the other way. They can open and close the door loudly without turning the handle. Then they can peek their heads out so that someone in charge will expedite the process just to get rid of those annoying kids. Then it’s over and all is right with the world again. Well, not quite, but at least we're outta there. School is the perfect training for life and not strictly academically speaking. (Side note: That math we thought we’d never use does come in handy. Assembling a car’s brake? Not so much.) I often tell my kids that life is all about doing tasks that we don’t want to do. There are days that I don’t want to cook dinner, load the washer, or watch another episode of Pawn Stars with my husband. But just like sitting through music class, the discomfort is only temporary. Now if I could just convince Peter.

“Go ahead. It’ll be an adventure,” I told my son. He was debating whether or not to go to middle school Tuesday morning. My three elementary aged children had already begun their school day, well before day break and before any signs of bad weather. I encouraged my son to go, take the Social Studies test that he’d prepared for, eat lunch, and then wait for an early dismissal. As a Georgia native and frequent weather watcher, I was certain that he’d be home by early afternoon.By now you’ve probably heard all about Snow Jam 2014. If you haven’t, it’s the story of how 2” of snow crippled a Southern city and how one mother had to go get her kids from a stranded bus. I’d been watching the weather forecast for days, hour by hour. On Monday night I even made a bet that school would be called off. It wasn’t. A regret that now haunts every school official and for good reason. The first snowflakes began falling around 11 a.m. They were more like specks really. The kind of “flakes” that Northerners might conflate as freezing mist. I thought about my children cooped up in their classrooms, looking out the window and dying to just get home. After all, snow days are rare in Georgia. I checked the news and waited for the robocall telling me that school was being dismissed early. By 1 p.m. I still hadn’t heard anything. Finally, at 1:45 I got the call. My kids were headed home. I made some hot tea and kept the extra water warm for my girls. They’d be home any minute. I unwrapped two sticks of butter, softening them to make a pound cake to eat after the chili I had simmering in the crockpot. A perfect afternoon of snow and comfort food. Snow began sticking to the brick walkway and gravel driveway. I watched out the window so I could greet the kids and ran to the front door whenever the dogs barked. Still no sign of them. By 3:00 p.m. I was calling the school to find out why a ten minute route was taking over an hour. The school is only ¼ mile from home. They said that the bus departed but they had no other information. I’ve always relied on and trusted the buses to transport my kids. Going to the school only slows down the dismissal process and clogs the roads. And I’d always felt that my kids were in safe hands with their driver who has fifty, yes 5-0, years of driving experience. I peeked out the front windows, unable to see the pavement, but watched as a steady stream of cars passed by on the main road. I figured the roads must be okay because the school wouldn’t send kids out on treacherous roads, right? Wrong. Meanwhile, my middle schooler called me. A call that was drowned out by the background chaos of hundreds of kids crammed inside a gym. He told me about accidents nearby and buses that couldn’t get into the school lot. He asked about his siblings, worried that they hadn’t arrived home yet. I was concerned, too. He asked to walk home, but I told him to wait. I didn’t want him walking along the congested roads. I also thought his dad would pick him up on his way home from work once traffic eased. Two hours later and my husband was going nowhere. Only later did I realize that asking him to buy cocoa powder on his way home was an early sign that I had no idea about the crises unfolding across the city. 3:45 p.m. and still no sign of my elementary kids. I was most worried about Peter. He already complained about the long ride home and never understood why he was the last stop. I called the school once again. There were no other updates about the departed bus. I wondered whether to leave the house on foot to find it along its route. Something had to be wrong, but I tried assuring myself that the bus was probably stuck in the traffic from the flood of children released from three other nearby schools.

When my middle schooler called again, I gave him permission to walk the two miles home with a friend. Minutes later the phone rang. It was my 11-year-old daughter calling me from the bus driver’s phone. The bus slid into a ditch. “Don’t worry mom. We’re okay.” I didn’t know whether to cry or scream. I spoke to the driver and gave him permission for my kids to leave with my middle schooler who would be passing by their bus on his walk home. His phone was dead so I couldn’t call him. The panic I’d been suppressing now came out in a ranting, profanity laced tirade at the damn school board for putting my kids in danger. A board with the motto “where children come first.” You might blame me for sending my children to school. But most every parent did, entrusting that school officials would follow the right protocol. I don’t think any parent believed that a school system would put children in harm’s way. Yet that’s exactly what happened. I shoved the bowl of pound cake batter in the fridge and ran to my closet, ripping off my clothes and trading them for a wool sweater and heavy coat. I grabbed a blanket and rushed out the door. Scarves and mittens aren’t everyday attire and I knew they’d be cold on the walk home. My jogging/speed-walk pace was slowed by the cold air settling in my chest and heavy snow boots weighing me down. I gritted my teeth to keep my furor from spewing out at the passing motorists. By now the cars were inching along the sheet of ice building on the roads. Conditions that already forced one man to abandon his Mercedes SLK convertible. I neared the school where another busload of innocent children was coming down an icy hill ready to set out on another bus route. A feeling of disbelief and anger possessed me. One bus sits in a ditch and others are leaving the school? Where’s the rationale in that? And who the hell was guiding this ship? I motioned for the driver to open her window, nearly bringing her to tears as I told her about my kids. I told her that the school board didn’t care about her or any of the kids she was driving. Like many people these days, she had a job that she was expected to do. Just another underpaid worker in the school system. I made a detour up to the school to seek out the principal. I’m not a vocal parent, but on this day I had to speak up. What were the administrators thinking by sending the children out on icy roads? I would’ve never allowed my children to board the bus had I known the roads were hazardous; neither should she. Would you believe that the principal didn’t know about my children’s bus? The one I was trekking to so they didn’t have to wait to be “rescued.” I’m shaking my head as I write this remembering the surreal events. Nearly a half hour later I reach all four of my kids just atop the impassible hill up from the disabled bus. I apologized to my son for the adventure that was anything but what I had imagined that morning. And would you believe there was another bus waiting to go down the hill and trailed by a police car with flashing lights? I felt surrounded by a city of officials and school administrators who seemed to have lost their common sense. I asked Peter’s siblings how he held up during the ordeal. They said that he didn’t cry but he scrunched his face up instead. They passed the time playing hide n’ seek on the bus and ate some Goldfish handed out by a passerby. One of many tales of people helping people.

Later that night, with my husband sleeping at his office, I learned through social media that our beloved bus driver had stayed with his bus long after sunset. Apparently drivers are supposed to remain with their bus. That’s one of those nonsensical policies, if true. Near midnight I was calling the local police, the school system, and the transportation department to save our driver from the cold. Fortunately, someone on an ATV came to get him within the hour. Yesterday morning I went back to the road to see the abandoned bus. Two other buses were also parked along the same road as well as twenty or so cars. I wonder which bus got stuck first, and why the others weren’t notified. And now, nearly forty-eight hours later, my stomach is still in knots, even defying the calming help from a few Long Island Iced Teas. I still can’t make sense of it all. Apparently neither can the whole city.

Here’s a test. Pick up a pen or pencil in your writing hand (or a crayon, marker, handle on a wooden spoon or whatever is near.) Grip it as if you were writing. What finger does the pencil rest on? Your middle or ring finger? For me, my pencil rests on my middle finger in a so-called tripod grip. That’s the way I was taught the art of penmanship, along with cursive and writing without spell check. I was surprised when I saw my daughter coloring and noticed this:

I felt the same kind of surprise when I realized that none of my children could address an envelope correctly. I must’ve handicapped them by addressing their thank you notes. That got me thinking. Was that a skill that I was supposed to teach them or was it something they were supposed to learn in school? Neither excuse was a consolation. I wondered what else they hadn't learned along the way. Amazingly, or not surprisingly really, Peter holds his pencil correctly. Maybe it was all of the one-on-one attention and occupational therapy he's had. And just maybe that's one upside of having autism. Whatever the case, I'll take what I can get. Next up, making sense of his written word. And liking school. And reading a clock. And tying his shoes...Thanks for reading!

Do you ever look ahead to a particular day with dread? The kind of day that’s “shot” before it even begins. For me, that’s today where I’ll be spending three hours confined to my children’s elementary school. First, there’s a TAG presentation and then I have three lunches to sit through that are back to back and only slightly overlapping in time. I can hear it now. You’re saying inside your head what a horrible mom I am for not wanting to spend time with my children. Let me explain. If my kids are at school then why would I want to be there, too? It’s not just the morning shower routine, hair dry, and getting dressed that I hate. I don’t want to read a book, see a project presented, participate in a feast, have a conference, cater the class party, hear an off-key performance, or devise a holiday craft. (All those creative women you find perusing the aisles at Michaels...yeah, I'm not one of them.) I’m the paper goods mom at best. I’ve never been an active PTA mom, a room mom, or a volunteer coordinator. Occasionally, my conscience coerces me into volunteering for some activity when that desperate sounding e-mail circulates begging for just one more participant. If you couldn’t tell, you don’t want my kid in your child’s class because then you’ll end up with me. And being at school isn't a place I want to be.Oh, and if the school clinic calls, I might not answer. Shameful, I know. Coming home requires a fever or sure signs of illness that need no further explanation. Last week, I was sucked in by the school nurse, abruptly answering the phone by default and unprepared with a reply to evade an early dismissal. She said Peter had a stomachache, was sitting in the clinic, and she was packing up his stuff to come home. Oh, ****! (You fill in the blank because I probably said both.) In those moments, what options do I have? For the record, I’ll never go so far as to send a sick, really sick, child to school. I promise I won’t let my kid infect yours if I can help it.

I know I’m not the only mother who wants every moment of “free” time after my children have vacated the house. And I use the word “free” time loosely because my days aren’t spent propped up on the sofa eating Bon Bons. (Side note: Does Nestle still make those? Chintzy Dibs are not the same.) Most days my morning ritual adheres to a rise and clean wake-up call rather than the preferred rise and shine outlook that's enjoyed by every non-parent or parents lucky enough to have grown children. That cleaning I’m compelled to do in keeping the home fires burning if you will, usually extends well beyond the time the children have boarded the bus. All four of them. I want every minute of that in between time from their departure to the second they arrive back home. I’m not ashamed to say it. Oh, how the hours go by so quickly. Let us not forget that the second parts of my weekdays are entirely devoted to meeting my children’s needs, from snack to bedtime to homework help and beyond. Plus, the dreaded weekends (Yep, I hate them) of full-time mothering that begin around Friday at 3 p.m. and lasts until it’s time to rise and deep clean again somewhere around 6:00 a.m. Monday morning. I wasn’t always such a grouch. Mothering has left me worn out. If you're a mom with young kids, it's likely that you're horrified reading this. You'll get there, too, in time. I’ve been a mostly stay-at-home mom for twelve years and my “free” time is well- deserved.

So now I’m off to spend three hours doing what I dread, albeit with a smile so my annoyance won’t show through on my face. I can fake it with the best of them and, if I look around, I bet I’m not the only one, teachers included. Let's hope the same isn't true for bus drivers.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” ~Charles Dickens

I’ve hit a wall. Not the proverbial creative writing wall that many bloggers ram into on occasion, but the emotional I-wish-everything-would-just-get-better wall. Life is made up of highs and lows and I experienced the full-swing of the pendulum within a span of 10 minutes on Friday. I’d just finished up a draft for my next blog post and was doing a final check of my e-mail before the kids arrived home on the bus. Have I mentioned how much I hate Fridays? Anyways, I got an e-mail that the post I submitted on BlogHer was selected as one of the editor’s picks! Here’s a link: http://www.blogher.com/child-porn-my-view-mother-after-my-cousin-s-arrest. As I was absorbing the excitement about the potential exposure I’d get, the phone rang. It was the school counselor telling me that Peter had threatened to kill himself with a knife. This was classic Peter. Per the school’s protocol, he wouldn’t be allowed to ride the bus home. “Why do they take what he says as a real threat?” I thought to myself irrationally while stifling my tears as I listened on the phone. I think that I’ve become so used to Peter’s antics that I don’t take his threats seriously. Maybe I should. The counselor said that Peter was upset earlier in the day because he couldn’t buy an ice cream at lunch and didn’t have money for the book fair which was only in its preview days. Damn you school fundraisers for making something optional seem mandatory. Peter doesn’t even read and only wanted to buy a book for the dog tags that came with it. The counselor checked on Peter before dismissal to see if his mood had improved. Not only had his frustration reached a crescendo, but he wanted to die. Thankfully my husband picked Peter up from school and talked to the administrators. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face them--the people who have no idea what it’s like to live with someone you can’t control. A child you love and hate at the same time. The counselor went over a crisis intervention plan and sent home a list of mental health resources--again. The last time Peter had an incident was in late August. Peter came home telling me that he needed to “find a doctor to fix his craziness.” Those words don’t sound like his. He told me that he wanted to be “discharged” from school and that he was going to kill himself in a hole in the backyard. He also talked about how he would get into more trouble at school by saying cuss words and refusing to do his work. I made the mistake of telling him that would be like shooting himself in the foot. Damn my use of idioms. When Peter calmed down he was upset with himself. He knew that he’d misbehaved, but didn’t have the restraint to stop himself from acting out. He knows he shouldn’t say those things, but his anger gets the best of him. That’s human nature, but his goes too far. I don’t care how many articles I’ve read that refuse to connect autism with violence. I just know what I live. Maybe my son’s anger is caused by a comorbid disorder. And maybe I have to consider using medication to control his moods even though that’s a practice I despise. I don’t know where this path will lead or if I’ll see the end of it. I just want it over.